Page 26 of Love Among the Shadows
Mr Bennet rose from his seat, his expression firm with quiet determination. “The girls will stay with their mother tonight. We men will keep watch.”
Darcy inclined his head in agreement. “I give you my word, sir. No harm will come to your family.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had been fretting loudly about nerves and dangers, gathered her daughters with much fuss, urging them upstairs with promises of safety. Jane gently held Elizabeth’s trembling hand, offering quiet comfort as they ascended the staircase. Elizabeth, though shaken, cast one last glance at Darcy, her heart heavy with regret and confusion.
As the door closed behind them, Mr Bennet turned back to Darcy. His air of indifference was gone, replaced bythe solemn gravity of a man prepared to defend his home and family. “Come,” he said, his voice low but steady. “We have preparations to make.”
Darcy followed him into a smaller study, where a chest was opened to reveal a set of firearms. Mr Bennet pulled out an old flintlock pistol, examining it with care.
“I admit,” Mr Bennet said has he handled the weapon, “I never imagined we’d be preparing for such a night. Longbourn has known many things, but murderers lurking in the shadows is a novelty.”
“It is an unsettling situation.” Darcy said.
Mr Bennet loaded the pistol with a practiced hand. “You’ve put my daughter at risk, Mr Darcy. For that, I could hold you accountable. But I see you are here to make amends, to right what has gone wrong. That, I can respect.”
Darcy met his gaze with sincerity. “I regret any danger Miss Bennet may face, but I assure you, my intentions were never malicious. I only wish to see this mystery resolved and the culprit caught.”
Mr Bennet handed him a loaded pistol. “Then let us see to it that we are ready for whatever comes.”
The two men moved quietly through the house, checking windows and doors, ensuring all was secure. Mr Bennet gave instruction to the butler to give to all servant, telling the women to stay in their rooms and the men to stay at alert.
The night air was cool and still, the moon casting a pale glow over the estate. The clock chimed an hour before midnight, the sound echoing through the quiet halls of Longbourn. The night stretched before them, uncertain and fraught with possibility, but both men remained steadfast in their resolve, ready to face whatever threat might come their way.
Fifteen
The night hung heavy with silence, the air dense with the weight of unseen clouds that cloaked the moon and cast the streets of Meryton in a murky gloom. Not a leaf stirred, nor did any distant owl call to break the stillness; the village lay as if under a spell, hushed and waiting.
Within a modest lodging house on the edge of town, all signs of life had long ceased. The landlady had barred her doors, her nightly prayers offered before retiring. The stable boy lay sprawled in the loft, oblivious to the world as his snores echoed softly through the beams.
It was in this unnatural stillness that a figure emerged from the shadowed recesses of the lane behind the house. Cloaked in darkness and moving with deliberate stealth, the man advanced, his footsteps softened by the damp earth beneath him. The faint light of the waning moon broke through a thin veil of clouds, flickering across his face and casting fleeting shadows on the cobblestones, revealing the scarf pulled high to obscure his features.
Yet there were no prying eyes to witness his passing. The street lay deserted, and the house, like the town itself, seemed to slumber under the weight of the night. The darkness, ever watchful, soon folded around him once more, swallowing his silhouette until he became one with the shadows.
At the rear of the house, he paused. His gloved hand traced the frame of a window, finding the shutters slightly askew. He crouched low, producing a slender tool from within his coat. The faint scrape of metal against wood was theonly sound as he worked the latch, his movements quick and practiced. Within moments, the window yielded to his efforts, and the man slipped inside.
The parlour greeted him with a chill, the lingering scent of smoke from the long-dead fire mingling with the musty air of a room too little aired. The curtains, heavy with dust, stirred faintly in a draught, disturbed by his quiet entry. Shadows clung to the walls, casting ghostly shapes across the threadbare carpet. The figure moved with calculated ease, his steps purposeful and soundless, each action deliberate and precise.
His gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on the worn armchair by the hearth and the door that led to the narrow staircase beyond. From the folds of his coat, he withdrew a blade. It was narrow, cruel, and glinting faintly in the sparse light that crept in through the shutters. The steel bore an inscription along its edge:Fitzwilliam Darcy.
He turned the weapon over in his hand, his eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction. It had all come together too perfectly—so neatly, in fact, that he could scarcely tell whether it was fate or sheer determination that had brought him to this moment. He had plotted and schemed for months, crafting each step of his plan with care, waiting for the right opportunity. And tonight, that moment had arrived.
George Wickham had attended the ball at Lucas Lodge, just as he had hoped. The gathering had provided the perfect opportunity to observe them both—the men he held responsible for the ruin of his sister. For nearly a year he had hunted for such a moment, waiting for the chance to see Darcy and Fitzwilliam in the same place, unsuspecting, unaware of the danger lurking near. He had watched them from the shadows, noting the tension between them. Darcy had flared with a rare display of emotion when he caught sight of Wickham conversing with the Bennet girl. That had been his first glimpse of thefire that simmered beneath Darcy’s controlled exterior, and it had confirmed what he needed to know then that his plan was doable.
There was no room for error now.
His fingers tightened around the blade, his thoughts turning darkly to the past. For a fleeting moment, he had considered targeting the Bennet girl. She would have made an easy mark, and her death would have shattered Darcy’s composure. But Longbourn was too large, too bustling with servants. The risk was too great. No, it was Wickham and Darcy who must suffer. It wastheywho deserved punishment.
The circumstance had not been like Thomas Granger’s death. He wasn’t part of the plan, but he could have ruined it, had he talked. Killing him had been clean and simple, executed under cover of the ball without so much as a whisper of suspicion. But the girl? No. She was not worth deviating from his plan.
His plan was meticulous.
Now, all he had to do was kill Wickham and leave the blade behind.The thought echoed in his mind. A blade engraved with Darcy’s name. It would be enough. Enough to cast suspicion on the man, enough to ruin him utterly. It would seal his fate. Darcy would face justice—or what passed for justice when no court would condemn a gentleman. The world would think Darcy guilty, and that would be punishment enough.
His grip on the blade remained steady as his mind drifted back to his sister—her smile, her laugh, the light that had been snuffed out far too soon. He had returned home to find her body, cold and lifeless, the note trembling in his hand as he read her final words.
The words haunted him still, the neat loops of her handwriting burned into his memory.
“This is for you, sister,” he whispered into the dark room, his voice low and filled with resolve. “It was all for you.”
